


In Retrospect, This Was Obviously a Comedy (Not a Tragedy)

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Future Castiel, Future Dean Winchester, Future Dean's totally cool with it though, Future Fic, Gay Panic, Graceless Verse, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Speculation, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2010-you had it all wrong, and hindsight's a bitch for being 20/20. Contains season 10 speculation/spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Retrospect, This Was Obviously a Comedy (Not a Tragedy)

I.

It starts on a dark and stormy night. Not for any reason in particular. Probably just ‘cause all the archangels you’ve ever met seem to have a hard-on for theatrics.

Cas had flapped his feathery ass in some odd hours earlier, giving you and Sam the lowdown on another one of heaven’s nukes that fell through the cracks during Balthazar’s whole black market operation—the same slingshot David used to knock Goliath flat on his can. You didn’t get why a crappy kid’s toy was so important, and you were already spread thin trying to glue your brother back together, so you had snapped at Cas, told ‘im that he should’ve bought the damn insurance.

Then the prick told you that you were the insurance.

Apparently, this thing doesn’t just work on giants; it’s powered with enough juice to topple skyscrapers with only one hit. Which is how you find yourself cruising through Podunk, Iowa, sent on some circus chase for the stupid thing like your life soundtrack is the Benny Hill theme on repeat. That’s when Raphael gets the drop on you, the storm raging almost as hard as those celestial dicks going mano-a-mano. Before you can even blink, Cas slaps up a sigil and hollers at you to keep the nuke safe, beaming you up at near FTL speeds to God knows where. Next thing you know, you’re falling out of some dude’s closet.

Yours and Cas’ closet.

You and Sam scramble to your feet, your jaw still scraping the floor as you stare up at your double. It don’t escape you that it’s really fucked up that this ain’t the first time you’ve peered into the looking glass, but your clone doesn’t appear to be an exact copy. More like someone who grew out the permastubble, started using more hair product than the L’Oreal ad you have for a brother, and racked up a few laugh lines along the way. You shouldn’t have laugh lines.  _You don’t laugh._

And is that Taylor goddamn Swift playing on the dial?

Oh, crud. You’re trapped in some kinda twisted mirror universe, aren’t you?

You pry away long enough to realize you’ve landed in your garden-variety, one-star motel room, the familiar army green and navy blue duffle bags on the bed; the whiskey and the Colt on the nightstand; the laptop and tome after fucking tome piled onto a table with toothpicks for legs…least it looks like some things’re still the same.

But then you notice the Cas sitting next to mirror-you isn’t the Cas you’re used to, neither. First giveaway is that his tie is actually fucking straight. Second’s that he’s sticking his tongue out to get at the ketchup on the corner of his mouth. But third? Third’s that he’s stealing a french fry from mirror-you’s doggie bag, and mirror-you doesn’t even lift a damn finger.

What fresh new Bizarro hell  _is_  this?

"Well," mirror-you says, shooting a sidelong glance at a Cas who’s got a few more wrinkles of his own around the eyes. "That explains a lot."

II.

It only gets better when you find out you’re stuck in 2019 and this version of Cas can’t zap you back home.

He’s  _human._

"You’re a dick, you know that?" You pace the room, throwing your arms up at him. "A goddamn flaming dickbag of dicks!"

Mirror-you tells you to calm your tits; if it’s anything like last time, when he’s shaken Raphael off his tail, your Cas will pop back in with his DeLorean wings two days later. In the meantime, you’ve gotta suck it up and wait it out.

Great. So this has happened before. Not comforting.

While Sam’s out grabbing food, mirror-Cas tries to offer the last of the fries like it’ll be some sorta compensation for your trouble. They're not even warm. “Unfortunately, I would have to concur that most of my actions at that time were deplorable at best. The complexities of emotions, the intricacies of the human heart…not something I readily understood back then.”

Mirror-you shrugs, heading for the mini-bar. “He got better.”

Mirror-Cas nods. “I got better.”

Well, goody for him. Does he want a gold star for not being an asswipe? Like it’s doing you any favors now.

"So how’d you end up running with the rest of us mortal sons of bitches?" you ask. "You dig up some heavenly kryptonite, or the angels blast off to some other planet again?"

"No, I…" he presses his lips together, finding a sudden interest in his shoes, "…gave up my grace."

"Gave it up? Wait,  _willingly?_  Why the hell would you do that?”

A dead silence creeps up as the two mirrors trade looks—like really fucking  _weird_  looks, man—and for a second, you think your skin might crawl right off.

Mirror-you squints at you, reaching for a fifth of what appears to be Templeton Rye. Least your taste in booze’s still intact. “What year you say you’re from?”

"2010."

He snorts as he uncaps the bottle. “Then that,” he pours three shots of the whiskey, handing the third glass to you, “is a whole can of worms you are so not ready for.”

III.

There’s something…off about mirror-you and Cas. Like,  _really_  off.

It doesn’t help that you will forever regret asking them what the fuck “Moondoor” is when you overhear them talking about it and this Charlie dude in the front seat—and swear to God, you will shoot Sam in the nutsack if he ever brings up you being a forty-year-old LARPer again—but then mirror-you gets on a fucking soapbox about how you’re allowed to expand your horizons and enjoy yourself after stopping the damn friggin’ apocalypse. “So what if we’ve picked up a few new talents along the way?” he says. You’ve still got the Impala, the plaid shirts, the hankering for good old-fashioned red meat, and thank God your tape collection is still rotated on a regular basis.

As far as mirror-Cas is concerned, mirror-you swears up and down he’s still nerdy as they come, even in the black leather jacket he’s traded the trench coat for—which makes you all manner of uneasy and you don’t even fucking know why. And when the four of you stop at a Gas-N-Sip for a coffee run, mirror-you must’ve noticed the way you were leerin’ over at mirror-Cas eyeing the painkillers. “It’s just for headaches and other minor shit. Only drug he’s addicted to is the bean.”

Sam don’t seem to think much of it, either, but while you don’t know what's waiting for you at the end of this funhouse, gut feeling says you ain’t gonna like it. For now, you’ll play nice, which means tagging along with mirror-you and Cas on the case they’ve been working in Burlington, Vermont. Some local girl who came down with a real bad spell of the harpies.

Apparently, that’s also something that happens a lot down the road: you and Cas working cases together.

The thought gets your heart ticking. “Where’s Sam? Your Sam?”

"Relax. He didn’t say yes or nothin’ like that, all right?" he tells you as you shuffle out of the gas station. "This isn’t some LS-Dick trip like Zach tried to pull on us. This is the real future. Or a more likely one, least." He sets his to-go coffee on the hardtop and leans against Baby, working at the scratch-offs he bought at the register. "Sam’s around, just not  _here_  here. Still helps out with research and all that crap; tries to make it out on a job when he can. But he’s, uh. Kinda working more behind the scenes these days.” He flicks the handful of scratch-offs across your arm. “That’s a good thing.”

Just like the real you, mirror-you doesn’t hit it big, but he’s still beaming when he says Sam’s got a wife and kid on the way, and you’ll be damned. Sammy finally got his white picket fence.

Dude, you’re gonna be a freakin’ uncle.

 _Hey, brother._  His phone buzzes with this ridiculous (and totally godawful) mish-mash of country and techno. “Speak of the devil.” You watch him wander off, his voice carrying without all the weight you’re used to hearing in your own. “Hey, Sammy. Tell me you got something.”

You shove your hands in your pockets, eyeing Sam out of the corner of your eye. Hmph. Guess you don’t mind sacrificing a few Saturdays out of the year for LARPing and a little AC/DC for Taylor Swift if it means your brother gets his happily-ever-after.

When mirror-you turns back around and the sun hits it at just the right angle, that’s when you spot the ring on your— _his_  finger.

IV.

This is not  _at all_  what you thought mirror-you meant by expanding your horizons.

This shouldn’t have even been  _on the freakin’ menu._

The ring doesn’t actually ever come up in conversation. It’s just sorta implied. By the fact that mirror-you and Cas are awful giggly after only a few beers as they’re slipping into their motel room and you’re suddenly remembering mirror-you booking just the one queen.

You pound the ever-living shit outta that door, and thank fuck there’s still clothes involved when mirror-you answers. “What the friggin’ hell, man?” Because seriously, _what the friggin' hell?_

He looks down at his watch. “Twenty-three hours. Really, dude? Took you that long?”

"Okay, I’m sorry; I think I missed the part on why we’re  _not_  having a complete fucking meltdown right now!”

"I dunno; I’m good." Oh, what a goddamn relief. "You, though—you still have that whole barrel of monkeys to sort out. So…have fun with that."

You wedge your foot in as he tries to turn around to go back inside. Like hell you’re gonna let him shut the door on you. “Are you seriously tellin’ me we decided to up and gay marry Cas one day?”

"Um…yeah. That’s pretty much what happened. ‘Cept, y’know. We’re not gay. We still dig chicks. Being into chicks and dudes—that’s actually a thing. And Cas is  _very_  open to threesomes.”

"No, naw, I would never—"

"Trey Parker. We were…what, twenty-two? And not nearly as drunk as we thought we were." Your heart almost craps out, and the sonuvabitch just smirks at you. "You do remember that I’m you, right?"

When you can’t cough up a response, he says, “Listen, man. I gotta lube up, so you gonna join in, or…”

You’ve got other plans. Like soaking your brain in bleach for three weeks straight. Unfortunately, not before Cas comes up to the door, pawing at mirror-you's t-shirt and bitching about taking too long and good God no dude should _ever_ be moaning into your neck like a fucking porn star like that. 

"Duty calls. The hubby gets tetchy if I keep 'im waiting." You barely get your head wrapped around just what level of hell it is where Dean Winchester uses the word "hubby" in _any_ context—even though you're pretty sure you're doing it to piss yourself off _and yes it's working—_ when you descend straight into the tenth after mirror-you and Cas start sucking face right in front of you and…whoa, hey, no, that's—okay.

Do you really use that much tongue?

"By the way?" mirror-you adds before you beeline it to your motel room and drink yourself into oblivion. "In nine years, this will be fucking  _hilarious._ ”

V.

You take it up with Sam at lunch the next day.

Oh, you’re the complete  _opposite_  of ecstatic to come within even a thousand feet of discussing whatever might be going on between the sheets in your future—holy shit, _is_ it your future?—but your brother’s the only one who’s known the two of you long enough to see this through a clear lens. And he’s a rational guy, right? The fact that he fucking got a free ride to college has to count for something.

You wait till your waitress is out of earshot and lower your voice. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t see anything different about this other version of me’n Cas? Aside from the fact that we’re ordering off the senior menu.”

"You’re not that old, Dean." He scrunches his nose as you chow down on your double bacon cheeseburger. Goddamn, whoever invented the pretzel bun better be getting rock star parking in heaven. "Though I’m surprised you ever made it to forty with your diet."

You glare at him. “Focus, Sam. I’m serious. You got nothin’? Nothin’ at all?”

"If it’s bothering you so much, then why don’t you tell me what’s different?"

"Because I’m looking for your fucking objective opinion, Sam. Wasn’t that why you were going to Stanford? So you could…object?"

He shakes his head. Fucking Christ. “Sorry, Dean, you must be seeing something I’m not. You guys seem like same old, same old to me. Other than Cas being, y'know, human.” He pokes at another forkful of rabbit food, then pauses before shoving it down. “Well, maybe there’s one thing.”

What he says hits like a stone to your gut.

"You look…I don’t know. Happier."

VI.

Mirror-you tells you to come with him. The plan’s to stake out a bench in some park that the harpy girl’s been known to frequent, but when he sends your Sam and mirror-Cas off to another one of her haunts, it’s starting to look like you’re in for more trouble than just a hunt.

At first, he don’t say much, checking and re-checking the mag in the Colt, which is a little more yellow than pearl these days. But just when you think it’s gonna be a straightforward bag ‘em and tag ‘em sort of affair, he finally breaks the silence.

"We deserve happiness, too, you know."

The back of your throat goes raw.

"I’m telling you this now because I know how long it takes to get it through that thick head of ours." Oh, God, please don’t go there—"See, Cas…"—he’s going there—"I know he’s got that whole enigma in a taco thing going on. And I know he don’t exactly seem like relationship material."

This isn’t happening. This is so not happening right now.

"But eventually, you’ll learn this thing about the dude. Don’t matter what it is; he’ll go to lengths you would never, ever ask him to, not in a million years, and he still takes it one step further. Will he fuck up? Hell, yeah. Like,  _royally_  fuck up. But…” he shrugs one-shouldered, rubbing a palm down his forearm, “…so will you. And when you do…well.”

You glance over and notice his sleeve’s rolled up, a couple scratches of pink near the crook of his arm. Maybe a scar, but it’s too faded to tell.

You get the feeling you’re better off not asking about it.

"When it happens, just let it happen, man. Don’t fight it. You’ll be a hell of a lot less miserable for it." You don’t have the slightest clue why—and not that there’s any part of you that even wants to know—but he’s chuckling under his breath about something now. "Course, I went down kicking and screaming, so guess that means you will, too. You’ve probably already gone critical systems failure on me and didn’t listen a word I said. But if there’s one thing you don’t want to botch, believe me…this is it."

There’s a sudden thrash of wings behind you, but instead of a woman scorned, it’s a holy tax accountant who gives you the all-clear. Glad your ride decided to grace you with his fucking presence.

Just before Cas raises two fingers and pushes the liftoff button, you catch a glint in mirror-you’s eyes, a heave in his chest. Somehow, you know exactly what he’s thinking.

_Don’t screw it up, jackass._

VII.

Things should be back to normal in 2010. And they are; don’t get you wrong. Cas is still a dick. One fully equipped smiting machine made of all four of those bendy elements—your money’s on him being an avatar in a past life—wrapped up in an oversized trench coat. But at least he’s your Cas.

Well, not  _your_  Cas.

Except…something’s beginnin’ to not feel quite right those moments you get to yourself when he splits to deal with one domestic disturbance after another. When he splits after you all but get on your knees to beg him to stop going after purgatory. When he splits after telling you that it didn’t make a damn lick of difference how hard you tried; you still couldn’t save him. Should be used to it by now—emptiness has been holing up inside of you long before angels ever crashed your party. Famine had you pegged the moment he saw you, and, well…he wasn’t far off the mark.

But these days, you get to thinking that maybe it isn’t the voices of the dead ringing in the hollow of your chest anymore.

Maybe it’s more like an ache for something to bring you back to life.

VIII.

The day you kick Cas out of the bunker—a Cas who’s at his most vulnerable, most  _human—_ there ain’t nothin’ but one thing running through your mind.

_You screwed it up, jackass._

IX.

He comes back when you screw things up with Sam, too.

You pull him to the side and ask him if it could actually work—a demon and an angel bottled up in the same meatsuit—or if you’re really just wiring Sam into a supernatural bomb. He shakes his head like he usually does, giving you the same old wishy-washy  _perhaps_  and  _it’s possible,_  but dammit, Cas…

You need something a little more definite in your life.

Your hands are all up in your hair, and you want him to tell you it’ll be all right and why the fuck did Dad leave you alone like this why did he always leave you and Sammy alone and for once you just want someone to fucking _be there_ is that too much to ask and suddenly your eyes are burning and forehead’s pinching and it’s like all of the air’s been punched out of your gut—

—and then he touches you, and you can breathe again.

You swear your bones’ve gone all Jell-O on you, but somehow, you’re still standing. Or more like hanging on, really, face buried in a collar that’s not quite broken in yet. And maybe it’s more awkward than that high school dance you never got to go to, you bein’ all snot-nosed and him bein’ stiff as hell, but you don’t care. All you care is that you’ve got something to anchor you in this whole fucked up, whirlwind of a mess. You feel him reach up and pat you on the back, saying, “There…there…” like he’d seen it on some TV show, and you almost wanna choke out a laugh ‘cause that’s just like Cas, ain’t it?

When he lets go, there’s an ease in his brow, a flicker of something bright in his eyes that burns smoother than any whiskey in your chest.

And you realize humanity suits him better than that halo ever did.

X.

One morning, you’ll wipe the fog off the mirror and see those damn laugh lines after all.

But you ain’t laughing.

XI.

When Cas pops the cork on his grace and gives it to you, that can of worms finally bursts.

He’s an idiot. Hundred percent, grade A dumbass. He’s the one barely hanging by a thread, hacking up bloodied bits of lung and skin paler than any ghost you’ve ever ganked. Insisting that it’s the only way to cure that angry tumor on your forearm even as the final drops of his bootleg grace drain out of him.

Even as you breathe in your first when the darkness loses hold and Cas breathes out what damn well better not be his last.

"No… _no!_ " His head rolls into you, eyes thick-lidded and glazing over. "You don’t get to leave this time, Cas! All these years, all you’ve been doing is leaving. You better fucking stay this time, you bastard!" You hate how the words rip through your throat as you grab a fistful of his collar; hate how your insides’re crumbling faster than the fucking tears making a hot mess of your face. " _You hear me?_ "

When he don’t answer, you skip the CPR and go straight for the kiss. There’s nothing but the taste of salt and metal against your lips, reminders of the flesh and blood you’d once fought tooth and nail to find but never realized you actually had all along.  

"Goddammit, promise me you’ll stay!"

Your fingers shake as you fumble along his neck, knuckles brushing against the scruff of skin you’re praying’ll be warm the next time you feel it rub against your cheek.

There. A heartbeat.  _A fucking heartbeat._

It’s as good a promise as any.

XII.

You don’t remember it until you’re shacked up in some crappy motel room and waiting out the storm, up to your ears in all the lore crap on harpies you can find. Cas steals a french fry before flipping a page and you loosen a tie, working your hand down under the table and up his inner thigh because it’s as close as you’re gonna get to a study break that night.

And then a light flashes underneath the closet door, one overgrown kid with that brown mop of hair and his jackass of an older brother stumbling out of it. When he looks up at you, all those hard lines and angles still years away from softening, you can’t do nothin’ but shake your head and chuckle to yourself.

"Well," you say as you grin over at Cas, squeezing his knee. "That explains a lot."


End file.
